


Crack the spine, let the words fall out

by paxlux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-18
Updated: 2011-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They read to the ticking of the clock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crack the spine, let the words fall out

The motel room is brown. The beds are a weird dark orange. The comforter Dean's sitting on is scratchy and smells funny and even Sammy's scrunching his face like he can smell it too.

Dad's at the table, muttering over newspapers and he kinda sounds like the rain outside. Mutter, paper crinkle, rain on the roof, mutter, paper crinkle, rain on the roof.

Dean's getting sleepy, but Sammy's still wide awake, watching Dean like he watches Thundercats, not blinking, not looking away because if he does, he might miss something.

Slash of lightning, deep bomb of thunder and Sammy doesn't even jump, just smiles and raises his hand, like Dean taught him, _high five_.

"Yeah, high five, big man," Dean says, smacking his hand. "So what now?"

They'd played hide-and-seek, but the motel room's so small, they ran out of places and Dad kept grumbling about them running everywhere. Bouncing on the beds is strictly forbidden, especially after that one time Sammy bounced wrong and flew sideways and would’ve hit a table, but Dean caught him.

Almost four years old and his grin is just about bigger than he is. But not bigger than Dean. Dean's the big brother; he'll always be bigger than Sammy. Gotta take care of him.

"Read," Sammy says, patting a book he materialized out of thin air. That's one thing about Sammy: it's like things fall out of the sky for him. He's always finding random things, bringing them back for Dean to see. "Read, Dean."

"Okay, whatcha got there?" A book with a kid playing with monsters.

Dean thinks that should be okay for them and when Sammy bundles up against his side, all warmth and snuffles of contentment, Dean decides that this is how everything should be.

It rains and Dean reads and they make up other stories about the pictures and Sammy grins, growling like the monsters in the book.

**

Dean's reading this book the librarian recommended to him, something about an island, blue dolphins, a stranded girl and her brother and Sam won't shut up. He keeps talking about the presidents and how he's memorizing them and Dean can't concentrate. The book's not bad and it'd be nice if he could actually pay attention, so as soon as Sam takes a breath and says, "Taft," Dean says, "That's great, dorkosaurus, I bet you could probably find Taft hiding under one of those beds over there. Maybe in the room next door. Why don't you go look?"

Sam gives him this withering look and Dean hitches his knees higher, to push the book up, covering that spark Sam gets in his eyes sometimes, little flare of anger that always makes Dean's belly burn, like Sam's setting him on fire.

"Taft was over 300 lbs., Dean. He couldn't fit in a _chair_ , let alone under the bed."

"Holy shit!" Dean doesn't remember that from history class.

Crossing his arms, Sam looks smug and offended at the same time. He always has this habit of mixing his expressions and Dean hasn't figured out yet how he does it. It's fascinating, like a science experiment. Dean tries to see how many he can get to fit on Sam's face at once.

"Yeah, read it in a book. Might do you some good," he says, nudging Dean's knee with his own.

"Uh, hello, reading?" Dean says and he waves the book at Sam like he's going to hit him.

Oddly, Sam flushes and doesn't try to wave Dean off, so Dean taps him on the top of the head anyway as Sam just mumbles, "Yeah, whatever, jerk."

He wanders away, bare feet slapping on the floor and Dean realizes Sam's wearing one of his shirts, a bit big on him since Dean's gone through a growth spurt, which he's rather proud of, if you'd ask him. Listening, Dean waits, because sometimes Sam comes out of his funk pretty quick and sometimes Dean has to go get him out of his funk pretty quick.

Five minutes later, Sam's pushing Dean's legs back and out of the way, curling up on the other end of the couch with a huge book and Dean can go back to the blue dolphins and the island they swim around.

They read to the ticking of the clock. Dad won't be back for another two days.

**

Sam's hungry but he's not about to get up and _make_ something, it's too much _trouble_ and his joints _ache_. He's fine where he is, stretched out in bed, reading, and it oh-so quiet because Dean is...elsewhere.

Until he hears a "Sam _my!_ " and Sam's instinct is to holler back, always responding, but he's not about to yell this time, Dean can come to him because he's comfy and he's reading something _other_ than a book about wraiths.

"Hey, Sam, make me a sandwich!" Dean sounds muffled and it takes Sam a minute; he realizes Dean's yelling through the open window, stuck under the Impala.

He rolls his eyes and goes back to his book.

" _Sammy!_ "

Dammit. " _What?_ "

"Make me a sandwich."

It's not enough that Sam has to put up with being called "Sammy," he's told Dean a million times _not to call him that_ , but he's reading, it's really good and Dean can make his own damn sandwiches.

"Make your own damn sandwich."

"Bitch, you best make me a sandwich, PDQ."

"Quid pro quo."

"Quis ut Deus?"

Sam smirks. Yeah, Dean thinks he’s God. "Damnant quodnon intelligunt."

There's a noise of disbelief from Dean, then he says, "In vino veritas!"

That surprises a laugh out of Sam and all right, he can play and cracking his knuckles, Sam sits up. He needs something appropriate.

"Vade retro Satana!"

Laughter floats through the window; “Nice try, Sam, but I’m not Satan!” A rock comes flying into the room and Sam's book falls when he jumps up. Damn, he's lost his place.

Dean yells, "Sic semper tyrannis!" and gives a war whoop. Sam huffs, hiding his own laughter, because yeah, okay, like _he’s_ the tyrant around here. Leaning out the window, Sam sees his brother crawl out from under the car, wiping his hands, standing with fluid careless grace, so tall, like Sam wants to be. He's tired of Dean trying to protect him; Sam can take care of himself, hell, he can take care of them both.

When he blinks, Dean's there, leaning against the house, arm up by the window, freshly nineteen and his smile is so bright with a smudge of grease across his nose and in that moment, all Sam can think is _totus tuus, totally yours_ , in a loop, it's stuck in his head.

"Well, Sammy?"

Shrugging, Sam feels his tongue try to stutter. "Uh, um, treuga Dei?"

"A truce? Aw, c'mon, man, lame!" Rolling his eyes, Dean smacks the side of the house and says, "Where's my sandwich then?" He walks away, back to the Impala, both of them shining like warm metal in the late afternoon sunshine and Sam feels something curl around his spine.

When he comes out of the kitchen bearing two plates and two sodas, Dean's sprawled on the couch, taking up as much space as he can. He's reading Sam's book, from the beginning, and his hands look like they're the only part of him that's clean.

"Hey, that's _my_ book."

Behind the book, Dean grunts. Sighing, Sam sets the plates and sodas down and waits, hands on his hips. Dean keeps reading.

"Sandwich, Dean."

"'M readin', Sammy."

"Ad astra per alia porci," Sam says, “Steinbeck,” and sits down, whether his brother's feet are there or not.

That gets Dean's attention, if only briefly and Sam smiles, if only briefly. "Oh really? Steinbeck was into stars and flying pigs?" Dean asks before looking back at the pages.

"Yeah, really. Now here, gimme the book or the sandwich gets it." Sam's got his finger guns ready, holding Dean's sandwich hostage, but his brother keeps reading and Sam gives up, stretches back and pushes his feet into Dean's stomach.

Dean oofs and says, "Persona non grata," using the book to flick at Sam's feet, but Sam just wriggles them and then smiles at Dean's dead-eyed stare.

They sit like that for a while, Dean reading, Sam eating first his sandwich, then Dean's because he's hungry and Dean's an ass, might as well.

He takes the last bite and says with a spray of crumbs, "Veni, vidi, vici."

"Dammit, Sam!"

Laughing, Sam ducks an empty soda can, then a pillow, then the book until he's captured by Dean himself. "C'mon, 'V', Dean, got anything?"

"I've got a pain-in-the-ass little brother and no sandwich!" Dean's tugged him close, arm around his neck for a headlock and Sam's waiting, breathless, ready to try to break it.

Then suddenly, Dean stops and lets go of Sam. "Vae victis," he says, with a lopsided shrug and a weird look on his face, a little pale under his freckles and the grease smudge.

 _Woe to the conquered._ Sam shakes.

"Dean?"

"I've gotta finish working on the Impala before the sun goes down." And he disappears, stopping only to pick up the book and chuck it at Sam again.

Confused, Sam catches the book, can only watch as his brother leaves and he's got that warm feeling circling his spine, curling up along his neck and he shakes his head.

When he takes another sandwich out to Dean, there's whistling from the guts of the car and he wants to say something, but he can't think of anything.

They don’t talk much after that and later, they head to the laundromat; Sam’s got a sheaf of torn-out crossword puzzles from various newspapers and Dean flicks quarters at him the whole time, peering at the puzzle clues over his shoulder.

That night, Sam crawls into bed with the feeling still cording itself around him, so he reads to distract himself and falls asleep after only a few chapters. When he wakes in the morning, the book is gone. He finds it resting on Dean's chest as he sleeps on the couch, a hand holding it to his body.

**

Sam will be eighteen in six weeks. Every part of him aches, for various unexplained reasons. The rain, the high winds, the heat, training, the hunt the other day which left him bruised and sore, anything and everything.

He's always angry and always hungry and angrily hungry, but he's not sure what for, maybe something he doesn't understand. He reads to make it go away, but the books are only making it _worse_.

His hair is in his eyes and Dean has become unreachable, weirdly private.

One day, he glances up from his math homework and sees Dean. His brother is pointing a gun at the TV on its crooked little stand, testing the weight of the metal in his hand.

And Sam splits apart, molecules and emotions and nothing else. It's all very clear.

He wants to get out of this life and he wants Dean.

Both prospects are equally terrifying.

The anger is part of him now, in his blood; it means he's not scared of his father anymore.

Dean calls him pipsqueak and is careful when he touches Sam, like hesitating, like they aren't brothers.

Once when Sam was sixteen, he spent a month not talking, trying to listen and learn the action-verb language of his father and the more silent secret language of his brother. He didn't even read or goof off, just watched and watched and watched.

Most of all, he is tormented by green eyes he’s known his whole life and a slow smile just for him, Dean calling him Sammy, the assured walk of someone who knows the ropes or can at least shoot them.

And it's enough to push him to his knees in the middle of the night, because he's hard, slick and miserable and it's his brother's fucking fault.

More height, a little more weight and he's bigger than Dean, much to his breathless surprise.

It's like being larger than the _world_ and he hunches his shoulders, not sure if that's a good thing or just makes him a bigger target.

Sam's uncertain what to do with himself, all angles and unresolved questions and it serves to feed his anger.

And his need to leave. It was a want, now it's a need and he thinks he'll die like this, on a hunt, watching Dean bleed out, standing behind a gun as his dad finally loses his last inch to whatever this is they've been chasing.

Then Dean says something, shares a slice of pie, calls him Sammich, throws away all his bookmarks and Sam is balanced, knows who he is, as if he was just a little out of tune.

So he kisses Dean, the only other thing he's ever wanted to do and it's not perfect but it's close because Dean kisses back.

It becomes messy, greedy, broken and jealous, and Dean's under his skin and he knows he's under Dean's by the way Dean swears and it sounds like an exorcism.

At night, Dean whispers, Sammy, and Sam goes to his knees for something he understands now.

Six weeks later, he's eighteen, he's done yelling, he's done wanting, he's done.

Sam packs. He slips into the car next to Dean. He ignores the way his brother's hands shake on the steering wheel in a way they never do when Dean's aiming at a moving target with his blood leaking onto the ground.

Then he kisses Dean, whispering into his mouth everything he can think of, but Dean bites Sam's lips as if he doesn't want to hear it.

What do you do when your universe is suddenly smaller and shrinking, like the last town, in the distance?

Sam looks back once. His brother looks so cold.

He tries to read, a paperback carelessly thrown into his bag, but he can't. The book is pointless, useless, just another piece of dead weight in a world Sam isn't sure he knows anymore.

He wishes Dean were as easy to carry with him as the book.

At the first rest stop, Sam throws the book away.

**

There’s a t-shirt under the seat.

Dean keeps finding things. Sam’s been gone for two years and Dean keeps finding things, hidden in the car. It’s like when Sam was little and he would just appear with stuff to give to Dean, coins, insects, ratty books, a glass Coke bottle, a silver charm he found in a motel chest of drawers, a frog.

The Impala is Dean’s, his baby, but Sam’s everywhere. In the past week, Dean’s discovered three shirts, six books and two green army men.

Two years and it’s as if Sam never left, his whole life slowly coming to light from the depths of the car.

Leaving with Chinese take-out, Dean spots a small useable box, one of those citrus fruit crates and he snatches it up. Some of the shirts fit him, acquired after Sam gained his height (“lemme look after you, Dean, I can do it”), but some of them don’t and they go in the crate with the books and the army men.

The crate goes in the trunk. Then Dean finds another t-shirt and a tiny silver charm.

There’s nothing on TV and even though Dean holds that there is _always_ something on TV because he’s not picky, today after he found the t-shirt under the seat, he has to admit that there’s nothing on TV. Instead, he grabs a book from the crate, pulling without paying attention and he stretches out on the bed with a sigh. The comforter is scratchy and weirdly orange and the wallpaper is a light brown and Dean is grateful to lose himself in his reading.

Sam’s name is scrawled in the front, that chickenscratch Dean used to tease him about, one in an armory of weapons Dean kept primed and shining to keep his little brother at bay, so he would never learn what Dean was and how he thought about Sam when things got quiet and Sam would be in some odd long-limbed contorted pose, reading and making notes in the margins with his tongue between his teeth.

Sam’s name is scrawled in the front and Dean holds his finger there as he reads. Stephen King and Dean’s remembering the story as he goes.

Then he’s remembering why he’s read it before.

Stuck in some new podunk town, near the East coast, salt in the air constantly and the house they were in creaked at every suggestion of wind. Sam was reading Moby-Dick for school and Dean was reading Stephen King for fun because fictional blood-gore-insanity was much better than the real blood-gore-insanity they saw on an almost weekly basis. One day, Dean caught Sam reading The Stand, Moby-Dick resting open, face-down on the bed next to him.

Flopping down, Dean tries to dislodge the books and Sam, but it doesn’t work, Sam doesn’t even look up. He just pushes Moby-Dick at Dean and says, “See if you recognize someone we know.”

And after he’d finished the book, Dean knew exactly who Sam was talking about, the “who” who had been gone for three weeks; he wanted to be angry, but couldn’t because Sam would watch him with those clear hazel eyes and they cut right into Dean’s heart. They both knew.

When Sam was reading The Stand, thick book so tiny in his huge hands, Dean would glance at him and think, Does that remind you of anything?

It still does, Dean on the scratchy orange comforter in the ugly brown room, all alone while Sam is out there, surrounded by people and things just waiting to go berserk.

He doesn’t stop reading, reads through the night because he doesn’t have anyone to see, nowhere else to be right now.

He feels lonely, until he turns the page. Then the next. And the next.

**

Inexplicably, Sam still smells of smoke. Four months after and Sam still smells of smoke and he showers all the freakin’ time. It’s irritating to Dean, but he can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like for Sam.

It’s old and new and familiar and awkward, Sam asleep next to him in the car, Sam awake in the other bed in the middle of the night, Sam with his dark head bent over his laptop and the way he says “Dean,” like he’s relearning his mother tongue, regaining a lost accent.

And it’s really disconcerting to have Sam back. Dean’s given to weird mood swings, like he’s a freakin’ girl. He hasn’t forgotten what it was like to drop Sam off, have him leave Dean behind. He hasn’t forgotten what it was like to be alone with bottles of whiskey and broken televisions.

Some sort of bizarre case, this one, the one they’re working, not Dean and his fractured sense of himself defined by his brother. This case is frustrating and they’re stuck on the next step in the process, stuck in the library until they can figure it out.

Sam’s got that look Dean remembers from his teenage years, fierce calm concentration, as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist outside of him and his book about river spirits. Dean’s got a book in front of him too, but c’mon, if he has to read about another marsh hobgoblin, he might have to set fire to this building. And it’s old, it’d probably go up like kindling.

The chair squeaks when Sam shifts and Dean smirks, can’t help looking at Sam when he’s disappeared into research statue mode. They’re set catty-corner to each other, books and notebooks and pens in between them. Dean’s watching Sam’s eyes follow along the page, hair sliding over his temples and he’s remembering things he shouldn’t, things long gone now that, well, things have changed.

Squeaking and Sam moves again, gaze coming up and Dean glances at the Fiction section, pursing his lips because he’s considering fiction instead of Sam, yup, fiction.

When a piece of paper hits him in the side of the head, Dean doesn’t jump, he’s just getting _prepared_ , like a ninja.

 **Stop staring at me.**

And over his book, Sam with a small smile even though he isn’t looking at Dean, carefully studying an etching of a lethal-clawed woman crawling out of the water.

 **Just wondering what color panties you’re wearing.**

Throwing it back, Dean gives a silent cheer and fist pump when the paper ball lands right in the break of the book, rolling a little in the open spine. Then he heads off into Fiction before he can see Sam’s expression.

Browsing, he finds he’s a few books behind on one of his favorite authors, those mystery thrillers that seem slightly implausible and maybe somewhat plausible and help you lose at least six hours in one sitting. Eh, they’ll be here for a while, so Dean grabs two, three, oh wait, that one’s misshelved, four.

The piece of paper is back, waiting for him and Sam’s propped himself up on an elbow, tracking Dean’s progress, like he’s the main attraction at a freak show.

 **Fire-engine red. And comfy. Should get you a pair.**

Dean laughs, much to the librarian’s consternation, and he doesn’t quiet down after she shushes him. He writes so fast, he almost tears the paper.

 **You’re so manly, Sammy. But who needs underwear, really, I ask you.**

And there, Sam’s laughing too, that instantaneous flare of a grin, and his eyes flicker, like he’s remembering too, remembering what it was like back when everything was new.

This time when Sam writes back, he switches to the chair across from Dean, their legs knocking together and Dean opens a book from his pile, nonchalant as Sam pushes the paper to him.

They read and pass notes and the librarian gives them three warnings for noise before they can calm down, shushing each other.

It’s all Sam’s fault, he has that laugh, lit loud like fireworks, and Dean’s just too good, knows how to keep his brother laughing.

**

It's raining, slow and light, like the air is gathering water and the corners of the map are curling. Sam attempts to fold it, floppy, the creases white and thin because he doesn't even know how many times he's opened it, run his fingers along the black and red interstates, the yellow state lines, how many times it's been written on and had coffee spilled on it.

When he glances up, Dean's by the fence, leaning on a crooked wooden post, facing out at the blue-gray, off at the distance where the rain is falling in smudged bars, like running paint. Dean's hair is darkening, his shoulders hunched as if his eyes are closed and he's keeping his balance with the fencepost. Sam knows he's tired, can see that he's bent his knee, the weather probably making it ache since yesterday he twisted it dodging a chest of drawers launched his way.

Shaking drops from his fingers, Sam walks up and puts a hand on Dean's neck, says, "Lemme drive for a while." And when Dean looks at him, his brother is the single bright point, electricity in the wet of the day and Sam thinks he might be electrocuted.

Dean gets Sam by the collar, pulling easy until Sam's close enough, Dean doing what he always does and pretending he's gravity, and his eyes are the only thing Sam sees, green the only color left in the world.

"Yeah, okay," Dean says before he kisses Sam, mouth cold and clean with the rain and Sam drags him closer, because Dean is a natural law, a mysteriously occurring phenomenon, like how the rain falls from the sky.

They haven’t done this for a while and Dean’s shaking or Sam’s shaking or they’re passing it back and forth, water between their mouths.

When the kiss breaks, Sam realizes Dean’s got his knee bent again a little, as if he’s some girl being kissed in a romantic comedy.

“Aww, baby, you missed my kisses,” Sam teases and Dean smacks him lightly, heading for the car as he shoots back, “Shut up, bitch, my knee hurts and your nuts are gonna hurt if I hafta put my knee in your crotch.”

“Wouldn’t want to inflame your injury.”

“Damn skippy.”

“So no sex then.”

Dean glares at him over the roof of the car. “You’ve got a lot to learn about sexual positions.”

Sam can’t help it, greedy giddy grin on his face. He waits until Dean slides into the shotgun seat, waits until Dean toes off his boots and puts his feet in Sam’s lap, squeezing at his knee.

“ _Please_ say you’ll teach me, Dean.” Hair in his face, puppydog eyes and Sam’s pulling out all the stops as Dean’s mouth opens, then closes.

“Oh yeah, I’ll teach you,” Dean says, recovering to leer at Sam. And Sam rolls his eyes, tosses a book at Dean and says, “Sure you will, old man, sure you will.”

Then they’re back on the road, Dean beating Sam over the head with the book.

Hand on Dean’s foot, Sam rubs, his skin warm through his socks, all around the knob of his anklebone and Dean reads out loud until his voice is going raspy, then he watches the scenery and falls asleep.

Reaching over, trying to move fast and without jostling Dean, one hand on the steering wheel, Sam balances the book on Dean’s head.

It doesn’t fall off until they hit a bump on a dusty dirt road and Dean wakes when it hits him in the chest, cussing at it.

Then he goes back to reading out loud and then it’s night and Sam can’t imagine spending his days without this.

**

Their dad dies.

Sometimes there just aren’t any answers in books.

**

Dean’s new favorite book, the only one he reads now, is their dad’s journal.

Sam buys cheap paperbacks at library sales and off flimsy card tables set up in driveways.

It takes a long time and lots of hours of Sam reading to himself, reading to Dean before Dean starts to snap out of it.

They watch TV, scrunched together in bed. They go to the bar, any bar, whatever bar is closest.

Dean’s insomnia is tempered a bit, but sometimes Sam will wake to find Dean in a tiny bubble of light, thumbing through a book.

They play cards and Dean loses spectacularly to Sam because Sam isn’t going to do him any favors and Dean smirks again, calls Sam a cheater and that’s it, they’re wrestling around and the newest rule is that if you can find skin, you can bite.

It’s a battle of wills and marks and one night, Dean gets Sam on his back, only to be accidentally headbutted out of a kiss because there’s a book pressing sharp corners into Sam’s kidneys.

Sam falls asleep reading, like when he was a teenager and wakes to discover he’s been drawn on and written all over.

In the shower, it seems like things are back to normal as Dean grumbles, scrubbing at Sam’s chest while Sam tries to distract him, fingers exploring.

**

If Sam says “lore” one more time, Dean’s going to…do something bad, he doesn’t know what yet. He’ll make Sam be bait. Sam-bait. Who could resist that? Especially all that muscle, he’d probably be tasty. The thing in the woods would like him.

Tasty.

“Stop it, Dean.”

“What?”

Sam’s got a flashlight held over a book, low angle, hand trying to hide the beam while they wait by the lake and his eyes glitter in the sallow light.

“I know what you’re thinking.” His eyebrows go up with that goofy look like he thinks he can read Dean’s mind or some shit. He always looks so weirdly like a puppy, expecting something, like scraps.

Dean’s properly offended. “You do not.”

“You’re gonna use me as bait. The lore says—“

“Aha, yeah, I’m gonna use you as bait now, bitch.”

“Because I’m so _chewy_ , right, jerk?”

It’s eerie, spooky and Dean huffs, rolls his eyes, flicks Sam’s hair. He doesn’t need his little brother seeing right through him. It’s creepy enough that Sam knows what Dean’s going to have for breakfast, but Sam isn’t allowed to see how much Dean needs him, always in the shotgun seat, other half of this coin, uh…

That’s probably enough of that.

“I’m not gonna be bait,” Sam says, shifting the flashlight a little and Dean’s making a bet with himself, “lore,” he’s waiting for “lore” one more time.

But Dean can’t sit around and wait on luck or his brother’s bad habits.

“So what exactly’s the name of this thing? And why lakes?”

Sam’s face in shadow and he kinda makes this noise, like a laugh and Dean grins, wide innocence, spreading his hands. “Well, it’s a—“ and Sam says this word, a name maybe, genus and species for all Dean knows, doesn’t sound like anything he’s ever read out of a book, sounds like it’s garbled, under water. How appropriate.

“According to the legends, it likes lakes because—“

“’Legends’ is close enough,” Dean says and starts pushing Sam towards the door.

Those hazel eyes squint in a half-glare as Sam says, “What.”

“Thesaurus, baby, thesaurus, ‘legends’ is close enough, now get out there and shake your ass until it shows up.”

“’Baby?’ _’Shake my ass?!’_ ”

“Did I offend your maidenly honor?” Dean asks, smirking. Then he looks Sam up and down, real slow, like Sam is a whole buffet and Dean’s starving. “Or I suppose not so maidenly honor. Though sometimes the maidenly part is called into question. Who’m I kidding, that’d be most of the time.”

Blowing his hair out of his eyes, Sam gives him that glare, the one that Dean always thinks means Sam is picturing him suddenly going up in flames. Dean just grins bigger. Yeah, he’s hot like flames.

“Fine, dumbass, I’ll go out there and kill it myself. You won’t have to do a thing,” Sam says, frowning and then he’s twisting, searching around for something, holding the flashlight and book like he might drop them.

Oh. Dean’s _got_ this one. “Need a bookmark? I’ll be your bookmark, Sammy. Know just where to stick it.”

And he is _the master_ , he is, because Sam’s smiling, trying to hide it, turning his face away before shoving a crumpled receipt between the pages.

The air is cold when Sam opens the door and he’s so tall, moon and lake behind him and Dean knows just how damn lucky he is. Then Sam pitches the book at Dean and slams the door, wandering off into the dark.

Free book. Dean cracks it open and puts his feet up on the seat and fumbles around for his own flashlight.

He’s about four chapters in when he hears gunshots and screw the bookmark, Dean’s out of the car to find Sam trudging along, soaked and shivering.

“Holy shit. You okay, Sammy?”

Sam nods miserably, gun in one hand, his hair and clothes dripping everywhere.

“Thank fuck. Now get in the car, I got a book to finish,” Dean says, steering Sam to shotgun and Sam says, all hoarse and affronted, “What the hell, Dean?”

It takes some effort because Sam is a big whiny baby, but Dean gets them back to the motel, inside to a hot bath and they stand there in the bathroom, Sam shivering against Dean making him shiver as they drip all over the tiles.

The tub is tiny. Like really freakin’ tiny.

They try to cramp together, with Dean in the vee of Sam’s legs, snug together like puzzle pieces and Dean goes back to his book (Sam’s so cross, “that’s _my_ book and hey, I did all the hunting!”), but Sam reads over his shoulder with little puffs of air on Dean’s skin until Dean can’t stand it anymore and he tries to warm Sam up in different ways.

The book winds up drenched along with various parts of the bathroom, water drops sliding down the mirror.

"Okay, so they're not gonna make it all freakishly huge for somebody like you, but that thing's designed for midgets."

"Freakishly huge," Sam says.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Like Godzilla."

"Thanks," Sam says, and reaches past Dean for the only dry towel.

Dean looks at him indignantly. Sam smiles and hands him the hairdryer.

“Oops, no more towels. And while you’re at it, you can dry the book.”

“Wait what why?”

“You stole it.”

“Oh hell no, it’s your book, just like you said.”

Sam looms, but Dean doesn’t back down until Sam licks his neck. Again and again and again.

Later, over the sound of the hairdryer, Dean makes sure Sam can hear him list off the many ways this is so very wrong, he is _not_ some sort of wet dog and being that it’s Sam’s book and all, Sam should be doing the work and the hairdryer has a funky odor.

The pages are weirdly crisp and wavy after that. And it smells like a lake.

**

See, in the course of hunting, one stumbles onto witches. And typically, the sane, humane thing to do is take away their objects and spell books. Which means carting them everywhere. Which means piles of books and random things with feathers taking up space in an otherwise handsome car. Driven by two idiots taking up space in an otherwise handsome car.

They’re on Bobby’s porch right now.

He raises an eyebrow at them and Dean shifts his weight under an armload of books, but Sam just grins at Bobby, probably because he’s carrying a box of junk. Three guesses which is lighter, and the first two don’t count.

Bobby wonders how Sam wrangled that deal, but he won’t ask; it’ll only encourage them.

“Hey, Bobby.”

“Boys. I ‘spose this is all for me. It my birthday?”

Dean gives him a strange look; “You have a birthday?” he asks as he pushes past into the house.

Sam laughs, “Yeah, we always figured you just appeared one day.” He slides the box under one arm, carting it easily; kid’s a giant and Bobby’s glad Sam’s on his side.

“Whoosh!” Dean says, almost dropping his books with a sweeping movement. “And behold, there was Bobby, beard and flannel and cap—“

“There something I have to help you two with?” Bobby asks before Dean can let his mouth and imagination run off with him. It might make for an interesting day, but sometimes, it just makes his day downright… _unique_.

Bobby can be gracious, when he wants to be.

“Yeah, take these,” Dean says, tipping a few books at Bobby, so he has no choice but to try and catch them. “And these. And these.”

“I’m not a library!” Bobby says, waving a book under their noses, but protesting doesn’t do any good. They get these twin expressions on their faces: disbelief and sarcasm, Dean’s eyes wide as he glances around at haphazard piles of books, Sam with this snarky little smile.

“You’re like the Smithsonian,” Dean says.

"No, no, Library of Congress," Sam says.

Bobby's not going to smile; it’ll only encourage them.

“Uh-huh. Why don’t I get paid like they do? Grants for research maybe? Money for my hard work. ‘Specially for putting up with you two.”

They shrug simultaneously, breaking out in huge grins.

“You’re an honest man doing honest work,” Dean says.

“Yeah, apparently, putting up with us,” Sam says, nudging Dean who nods seriously.

“You’re so noble, Bobby.”

“You’re my hero.”

“All right, shut up,” Bobby says, “both of you.” He does smile, can’t help it, these two lugheads in his house, so he tugs at his cap to cover it. “Got anything else you want to dump on me?”

Sam looks at the ceiling, thinking. “Got a few more books in the car, some talismans you might wanna look at—“

“And this girl gave me her number, well, she _pushed_ it on me, she wouldn’t _go away_ , it was all very.” Dean shudders, looking stricken and behind him, Sam curls his hand like claws and mouths _rawr_.

Nope, Bobby’s not going to laugh; things’d just go downhill, he knows it.

But Sam’s laughing, can barely contain it and Dean’s acting insulted, swatting at Sam and Sam ducks, swats back and oh, hell, they’re going to knock something over, so Bobby’s trying to separate them with minimal catastrophe.

A stack of books falls over, then another and another and the bookslide takes out the box Sam was carrying and dammit, now there’s amulets and charms all over Bobby’s floor. Collected from meddlesome witches. Devil knows what they do and they’re _all over Bobby’s floor._

Fantastic. Bobby should probably start locking up when he hears that engine in his driveway. It’d be like a warning, tornado sirens and the emergency broadcast system.

“Smithsonian, huh?” he says. “You two’d tear the place down to its foundations,” and they’re not contrite, not even a little bit, Sam biting back his smile, Dean not caring and smiling big at Bobby like Bobby just won the lottery and a lifetime supply of burgers or something.

Grumbling, he says under his breath, “I’m just so lucky.”

“Yeah, you are,” Dean says, clapping him on the back and Sam rolls his eyes.

He makes them hop-to, fetching holy water and rubber gloves and supervises as they clean up the box because he’s good at supervising, should probably get paid for that too.

They bicker, like usual, Dean pushing at Sam and Sam pushing back and the supervising kind of disintegrates because Bobby has to wander off, laughing, fetching beer to bribe those boys into doing something _useful_.

When he comes back, they’re sitting on the floor, talking low, Dean with that smile that was, is always only for Sam and Sam gripping Dean by the neck, long fingers curled against his skin.

A few beers and hunt updates, random questions about lore (Dean makes this low growl in his throat and Sam smirks), salt and ammo, then they’re all browsing Bobby’s books, Sam glancing over hunting material and Dean sticking out his tongue, going, “What, no true crime?”

When they leave, heading out “after black dogs, I think,” Sam says and Dean chips in, “Yeah, but Sam don’t know much, so,” Sam’s got a couple of books under his arm, Dean with a paperback or two scrounged from some shelf Bobby’s not sure he remembers seeing under all that dust.

“I’m not a library,” he says again, like it’ll stick and Sam pats his shoulder, as if commiserating, no matter what Bobby says and he harrumphs in response.

Dean twirls his keys. “Nope, that’d make you a librarian and—“

Bobby cuts him off, “All right, okay, just go away and don’t bust up that car on your way out,” shooing them off his porch.

He doesn’t tell them to be careful; it’d only encourage them.

**

Sam disappears.

Sam dies in the mud.

Dean doesn’t need to look in a book to know what to do.

**

At first, Sam hides it. It’s like being thirteen again, sneaking around, reading things he shouldn’t, under the covers with a flashlight or putting his back to Dean.

He reads like it’s going out of style, books Bobby hesitates to give him even the titles to, much less an actual book itself. He reads in the times between, like he’s living in the spaces, car, road, motel, gunshots, Dean, always Dean, forever Dean because Sam’s going to fix this, he _is_.

Dean still reads fiction, working through Hemingway, Kerouac, Salinger, others, some non-fiction, a few biographies and such, pouring over car parts, but Sam hasn’t touched a paperback in months.

Hiding it is harder than he expects, especially when Dean appears out of nowhere, sometimes naked, to drag Sam away from whatever he’s reading. He hates hiding anything from Dean, but this. This is _essential_ , this is everything.

And his brother is shooting glances at him, worried but covering it up, squirreling away Dad’s journal, scattering notebooks when he kicks his feet onto the coffee table, pretending to be engrossed in whatever thriller he’s reading this week, whatever reality show is on TV that night.

Libraries are even worse because they may be working on a hunt, but Sam wants to check their harder stuff, their esoteric archives, you never know what you might find in a small town and Dean sometimes walks out with books, stamped CARLSBAD PUBLIC LIBRARY, stamped CHAMPAGNE-URBANA, stamped TYLER; he refuses to get rid of them until he sees Sam open one, “c’mon, geek boy, _c’mon_.”

So Sam goes back to fiction, goes back to mysteries and classics and sci-fi and once Dean even “borrowed” (“it’s a _library_ , I am a _patron_ , I am _borrowing_ ”) a romance novel with a horribly-drawn cover, “it’s what chicks like, right, Sammy?” Dean, cocky smile, hand on his hip as he gave Sam the book and a beer and he’s got eight months left.

They read it to each other, in bed, with a six-pack and flamboyant gestures between them, Dean’s eyes glowing like every memory Sam’s ever made.

Sam still hides the research because it’s all he can do, the only thing he can do.

They leave the “borrowed” books in other libraries, Laramie, Eugene, Worcester, Lake Charles, Athens.

Sam’s head hurts. He’s practically slumped on the table and he thinks he’s got a paper cut somewhere on his palm because it stings, but he can’t see it.

There’s another bad cover staring back at him, another romance book Dean probably picked out by the cover alone, or maybe the title, they’re both certainly _inventive._ Dean’s read the same paragraph four times now, glancing up at Sam after every other word. Sam knows.

He pushes the book out of Dean’s hands and kisses him.

**

Sam’s not hiding it anymore. He hasn’t for a while and when Dean got pissed at him, Sam just climbed into the Impala with some really dusty books (tomes, as he always imagined them) and let Dean get it out of his system. It actually turned into Dean crawling into the backseat with him, angry kisses and his fingers bruising Sam, in the motel parking lot at three in the morning.

Dean’s running hot and cold and Sam feels feverish, but he’s just starting to hate books, to hate how they tell him the same thing over and over and the message is clear: he can’t save Dean.

They watch TV. They play cards. They set up target practice behind an abandoned house they’ve cleansed not fifteen minutes earlier, shots ringing out under the clear night sky and Sam tries not to think about how Dean won’t see sights like this in four months, won’t be able to tip his head back and stare at the stars, like he is right now, his arms held out at his sides as if he’s taking it all in.

Aim for the heart, aim for the head, though Dean likes to aim for the groin with a schadenfreude curl to his mouth. And he laughs every time he hits it, runs his fingers over the bullet holes, over where Sam shot, like he’s proud of his little brother, proud of everything he’s become, regardless of what’s happened before, what might happen again, separation and everything after.

At some point, Sam falls asleep in the middle of some tiny tiny text and when he wakes, Dean’s at the laptop, alternating between peering at the screen and peering at Sam.

“I do not wear latex and that better not be porn.” Sam’s voice is sleep-creaky; he hates that.

Dean’s expression breaks open like he’s offended or been caught. “Sammy, c’mon—“

“I know you, Dean, and.” Sam stops. If he says another word, he might vomit.

But Dean’s talking, fast, defensive, “It’s just a list, jeez, suspicious much?”

Swallowing once twice, deep breath and Sam’s not panicking about anything, nothing at all. “Sexual positions? Tourist traps? The 100 best heavy metal songs of the past decade?”

“Nah, that’s for later,” Dean says, lightning flash of a grin before it fades. “I just wanted something new to read. ” Shutting the laptop, he shrugs his shoulders.

Something so simple. Sam doesn’t think of it as a last request. There’s still time.

When Dean’s in the shower, he checks the browser history, finds the list and smiles.

There’s a used bookshop a few blocks down, so Sam makes the food run and stops by the store. He grabs a few books from the list he can find; Dean searched for recommended sci-fi titles and Sam’s looking forward to a nice escape, break from the last few days.

He doesn’t want to lose time with Dean, but when Dean sprawls out with his head in Sam’s lap, reading one of the books Sam bought, nudging into Sam’s hand as Sam absentmindedly runs his fingers through Dean’s hair while diving deep into a book of his own, it’s as good as that day when they saw a rainbow in the distance and Dean raced towards it, alternately drooling over pots of gold and cursing leprechauns and Sam laughed so hard, he derailed the whole expedition by almost pissing in his jeans, Dean joking about golden showers as he pulled over to the side of the road.

“Dude, stop _pouting_ ,” Dean says one day, with an elbow in Sam’s ribs. “It’s very unsexy.”

“Like I could ever be unsexy.”

That smirk, that one that’s edging into a smile, as if Dean’s enjoying some sort of private joke, endless amusement at the world, and Sam smirks back, raising an eyebrow because he thinks he knows the punchline.

Tossing a shirt at Sam’s head, Dean says, “Get dressed.”

“Why, you don’t like me like this?” He’s holding a towel around his waist, dripping water and he knows Dean, he doesn’t have to attempt seduction, his brother so easy it’s almost embarrassing. Almost.

“C’mon, dorkorama, we’re going to the bar.”

This probably isn’t the best idea they’ve ever had, mixing alcohol and tension, the feeling of waiting for a bomb to explode somewhere inside Sam’s chest and he doesn’t think the liquor will put out the fuse, might only make it burn faster.

But they’re matching each other, drink for drink, shot for shot, collecting empty bottles like baseball cards and Dean keeps smiling at Sam, engraved invitations and silver platters and his whole heart on display. Even drunk, they can still hustle pool and Sam kicks ass, Dean running his mouth and they end up at the edges of a bar fight, sprinting with wads of cash in their pockets and Dean’s laughter is Sam’s weapons-grade rocket fuel.

Nothing is better than running with Dean down unfamiliar streets, lights tipping and blurring and the sidewalk tilting underneath them. Nothing is better than Dean saying between breaths, “Poor bastard, think we took the money he was saving to buy some new teeth” and he pushes Sam against a brick wall, mouth to Sam’s neck as Sam laughs out into the night.

Dean’s got a bruise on his jaw and Sam’s got a bruise on his cheekbone and their knuckles are red and the adrenaline is enough to power a small city.

Sam trips over the threshold back at the motel room, but it’s Dean who falls, landing in an uncoordinated heap and Sam says, “That how ninjas do it?”

“Fuckin’ A, Sammy. Now help me up.”

“Ninjas don’t need help getting up from where they fell. Where they fell while they’re stinkin’ drunk.” Sam prods at Dean with his shoe and jumps back when Dean swipes out.

“And who got me drunk?”

“You did. Not my fault you don’t remember.”

“’Sposed to look out for me, Sam, I have no choice but to fail you. F minus. F minus minus.”

Every part of Sam locks, like gears grinding together and he sits heavily on the end of the bed. He _is_ supposed to look out for Dean, take care of him, get him out of this stupid fucking deal, selfish fucker, why can’t he do this, Dean’s his brother, for fuck’s sake, he can do _this_ , he _can’t_ do this.

He bows his head, hurting everywhere and then Dean’s hand is in his hair and he’s saying, “Stop fuckin’ pouting. I _told_ you, it’s _un_ sexy.”

Sam lets himself smile, a little.

“And I told you it’s _impossible_ for me to be unsexy.”

No reply, just crazy bouncing of the bed because Dean’s thrown himself on the bed and he’s squinting at the book Sam’s been reading.

“The things you read.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Sam asks, folding his arms, deciding whether or not to loom, whether he might lose his balance if he tries because if Dean’s drunk, then Sam is too and ain’t that just the way.

"Dude, wouldn't it suck if you got high and your _whole_ eye, the whole fuckin’ thing, went blue and then everyone knew you were high all the time?"

Sam can’t believe it. “What?” he asks slowly.

Dean lolls on the bed, turning the book in his hands, upside-down, rightside-up, muttering something about small fuckin’ print.

"Is the planet made of spice or do the worms produce it? Wait, is it like their shit or something? And people value this more than gold? But it's called spice, so is it like cinnamon? And the whole planet is just dunes of cinnamon worm shit?"

Just like that, Sam’s done for, always a sucker for Dean, lost in whatever Dean says and now he’s laughing as Dean stares at the book, a snooty expression on his face.

“I mean, c’mon, how do you even _pronounce_ that?” He makes a rude sound, then another, like he’s gargling, falling sideways into the pillows and Sam’s stomach hurts and he can’t breathe, laughing so hard he’s crying.

“Dean, you—“

“There’s supposed to be a plot, right? Or is it just cinnamon worm shit?”

Sam’s knees give out and he collapses on Dean who starts shouting, “you bastard, fuckin’ sasquatch, get offa me,” muffled by Sam and the pillows and then they’re wrestling, drunk and bungling, limbs knocking and flailing until Dean gives an almighty push and they topple off the bed.

They’re jumbled together, sloppy and messy and Sam wants this forever, for good. Dean’s underneath him, swearing up a storm, raining curses on Sam’s head and Sam kisses him because he only plays for keeps.

Four months and Dean’s eyes are happy slickshines in his face and Sam’s so drunk, he’s not letting go, doesn’t know how, doesn’t really care.

“Well, c’mon, punk, what’re you reading then?” he asks, mouth against Dean’s forehead.

“Pretty friggin’ sweet, Sammy. There’s a school and kids keep kicking the shit outta each other. They fight all the time, gettin’ ready for battle.”

“Battle the bad guys?”

“Yeah.”

“Like we do?”

“Yeah, like we do.”

Four months and Sam’s got his brother smiling at him and they’re both so warm.

**

The TV’s on, quiet in the background, a familiar and somewhat comforting murmur, colors flashing in the dark of the house. Sam’s fallen asleep sitting up on the couch, a bottle of booze tucked between his legs and Dean watches him sleep.

He’s behind a wall of books, opened, closed, all of them smothering him with dust and text and engravings that would give other people nightmares.

It’s a countdown and Dean likes to think of himself as a prize fighter and they’re counting down to fight night, when he goes head-to-head against some of Hell’s finest. Though he wants to, Dean doesn’t joke about how they don’t have to fork out for pay-per-view.

Sam, on the other hand, walked into the motel room a week and three hundred miles ago and started throwing books around without a word.

No sound, no change in his expression, he just went straight to mindless destruction, like it was a new hobby or a pastime he was practicing.

They’re hunkered down at Bobby’s house now and Sam’s acquiring a liquid-diet taste for whiskey. But only when Dean isn’t distracting him or when the house becomes too quiet or when Bobby runs out of things to say.

Dean watches Sam sleep and remembers how he would push Dean into a chair by hugging his legs and then read to him as if he was teaching Dean, would flip Dean off behind huge doorstopper books, then as he got older, behind newspapers, behind his laptop, behind a fan of cards and in the twisted bed sheets and from the shotgun seat of the Impala.

Sam’s fallen asleep sitting up on the couch, fingers twitching on his thighs and Dean decides that if the world is still breathing, can still fall asleep with the TV on, then everything will be okay.

He flips a few pages, tracing over the font, over the ancient ink, the symbols and circles and shapes.

Dean watches Sam sleep and remembers the little three-year-old who made growling noises as they read about monsters together.

**

Dean dies.

Sam wants to burn every book in the world, but he can’t. He _needs_ them because he’s going to get his brother out of Hell. He _is_.

**

Dean comes back to Sam, real and whole and his eyes are green and his smile is cocky and his skin is warm.

He even smells the same.

It’s like a fairytale, something Sam thinks he read about in a book once.

It’s the truest thing, like holy writ.

And he comes back breathless and as with everything, if Dean’s breathless, Sam is too.

So one night when Dean crawls into bed, still damp from the shower, still flushed from the hot water and sleepily tugs Sam down beside him, Sam doesn’t ask, a little nervous because it’s like starting over, as if they’ve both been brought back from the brink.

The television has three channels; one is some sort of distorted green, one is pinkish-red, one is a sickly mixture of the other two. They can see people, in a way, between the odd striping bars.

Out of nowhere, Sam dangles a t-shirt between thumb and forefinger, crumpled, stained and says, “I found this in the car the other day.” It was Dean’s, it _is_ Dean’s and Dean smirks.

“Yeah, doesn’t surprise me.”

“It was under the seat.”

Dean nods, mock serious. “Oh trust me, I know.”

“I also found this.”

A book. Stamped FORSYTH COUNTY PUBLIC LIBRARY.

“I expect you to do different voices.”

“What, why?”

“Dude, it’s the _least_ I deserve.”

**

Dean sings along with the radio, turning it up and in the shotgun seat behind a book, Sam flips him off.

**Author's Note:**

> Books I referenced:  
> → Where the Wild Things Are  
> → Island of the Blue Dolphins  
> → John Steinbeck (okay, so he’s an author)  
> → Moby-Dick  
> → The Stand  
> → Dune  
> → Ender's Game
> 
> Latin I used:  
> quid pro quo: "what for what"; signifies a favor exchanged for a favor.  
> Quis ut Deus?: "who is like unto God?"  
> damnant quodnon intelligunt: "they condemn what they do not understand"  
> in vino vertias: "in wine, truth"  
> vade retro Satana: "Go back, Satan"  
> sic semper tyrannis: "thus always to tyrants"; rumored to be what Brutus said at Julius Caesar's assassination and what John Wilkes Booth yelled after he shot Lincoln.  
> totus tuus: "totally yours", as I have it translated in the story  
> treuga Dei: "truce of God"  
> ad astra per alia porci: "to the stars on the wings of a pig"; a saying of John Steinbeck  
> persona non grata: "person not pleasing"; an unwelcome person  
> veni, vidi, vici: "I came, I saw, I conquered"; attributed to Julius Caesar  
> vae victis: "woe to the conquered", as I have it translated in the story
> 
> No one take offense as to my descriptions of Dune or Ender’s Game. Though I do love Ender’s Game.


End file.
